Poetry-Thing Thursday: Scars

Scars run deep,
in tissues that seep,
with blood and pus,
and memoried wounds that weep.

Steel sings sharp,
begs played harp,
from creatures with wings,
hanging o’er the body-covered tarp.

Words whispered from tongue,
in a madman that’s hung,
the sound knows no end,
bellows ever his lung.

Let snow blow and fall,
‘pon mountaintops tall,
and follow their slopes,
‘til warmth comes to call.

For in giant’s steps,
comes sadness that slept,
for the soul once ablaze,
knows not what it kept.

So remember each scar,
they’re important by far,
and no matter where you go,
each one sets a bar.

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